


Communion

by purple01_prose



Category: Epic (2013)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Food, Food Porn, Gardening, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple01_prose/pseuds/purple01_prose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nod doesn't believe in pie. MK sets him straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her dad’s kitchen is a mess.

 

Cleaning it takes _days_ , partially because she has to pause to sleep and do other things (like answer the monitors when Nod calls—which she can usually time to between 2 and 4 in the afternoon), and partially because her dad has objections to what she’s tossing.

 

Since he has a large area cleared in the back of the house that gets fairly steady sunlight, she wants a garden. Seeds are inexpensive, and the ground’s rich enough, so between the kitchen and the starting garden, she spends a lot of time outside.

 

Since Mub doesn’t have to report to anyone, he spends a lot of time with her in the garden, and gloats about it to Nod later. (She works out an arrangement with him so that as long as she leaves some of the growing things _outside_ the garden for him, he’ll keep his friends from wrecking it). Seriously, how do Stompers do things like garden without these kinds of negotiations?

 

So with the kitchen and the garden, her hands are full. If she and her dad can grow their own food, it will _really_ cut down their food costs, which is a good thing.

 

However, the kitchen presents a challenge.

 

The place is absolutely filthy. She has to clean it from the ceiling to the floor, and after she realizes a puddle of liquid is pesticide the first day, she goes to Home Depot and returns, armed with masks, goggles and gloves. She calls Poison Control to figure out how to dispose of it all, since she’s pretty sure most of it qualifies as toxic waste.

 

Her dad is banished from the kitchen after that particular conversation.

 

Gradually, she starts to see results. The counters sparkle, and _stay_ sparkling. The refrigerator gets cleaned out completely (“No, Dad, you can’t keep your biological samples in the same place where we store our food,”), and finally the place is clean.

 

It only takes two weeks.

 

The oven is kaput, so she lets her dad in under strict supervision to fix it, and he does a credible job. The garden’s exploding with life, even though it’s verging on late summer, and she reads up on canning to save all of the fruits and vegetables.

 

She feels accomplished, even if she’s not used to all the dirt under her nails. She’s put off college for a year (something the Registrar had been _very_ understanding of), and she’s honestly not sure if she’s going to do college in the first place. It’s complicated.

 

She’s in the process of making pie when Nod pops up at the window. Since her dad learned about how _exactly_ she, Ronin, and Nod had gotten in, he’s locked all of the windows (for safety reasons), and she unlocks it for Nod. Her helmet’s within arm’s reach, so she pops it on as she turns to stir the apple/cinnamon mixture.

 

Nod sniffs appreciatively. “What are you making?”

 

“Apple pie,” she says, putting aside the spoon and pouring it into the waiting piecrust. She’s latticing the dough on top, and she’s already got the pie dough in strips, waiting. “If you’re willing to wait for a while, I’ll even let you have some.”

 

Nod sits on the edge of the counter, watching her. “What’s pie?”

 

MK stares. “Pie is pastry crust, with a filling, usually fruit-based like apple, cherry, or pumpkin, with pastry crust on top. Sometimes.”

 

“Oh,” Nod dismisses, waving a hand. “We have fruit tarts. They’re good.”

 

“Fruit tarts _are_ good,” MK says grudgingly, laying on the strips of crust carefully. “But pie is better. I’ll make sure you get some—maybe give you some to take home, too.”

 

Nod swings his legs as she places the pie in the oven and closes the door, setting the timer. “So how’s work?” she inquires, sitting on the counter that is expressly there for the purpose.

 

“I thought once you were put out into the field you stopped training,” Nod grouses good-naturedly. “But no, apparently not.”

 

“Oh please. You love it.”

 

“I do,” Nod grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “So how’s the garden?”

 

“The tomatoes are ripening,” MK lists, “and the squash is coming along nicely, as are the potatoes. It’s the wrong season for fruit, but I’ve got the seeds for when it’s right to plant them. By next year, between the fruit, the veggies, and the wheat, we should be fairly self-sufficient except for meat.” She beams. You don’t need to eat meat every day, just two or three times a week.

 

“Does this mean you’re staying?” Nod looks so hopeful.

 

“I don’t know yet,” she says cautiously.

 

“That’s better than ‘no,’” Nod says cheerfully.

 

About halfway through the baking time, her dad peeks in and sees the two of them. MK waves a hand at him, and Nod half-turns to see who she’s waving at (who else, doofus), before turning back in time to say, “Well, as much as I love our hummingbirds, I prefer to ride larger birds, even if they’re not as maneuverable.”

 

“What do you guys ride in winter? Hummingbirds and winter don’t exactly go together.”

 

“Chickadees,” Nod says cheerfully. “They’re a little bigger and not as maneuverable, but they can fly in winter and they blend into the surroundings the way hummingbirds do in spring and summer. During winter, you also want a bird that’s a little bigger because the winds are stronger.”

 

“That makes sense,” MK agrees. “Though I don’t understand how hummingbirds are domesticated in the first place.”

 

“We raise them from an egg,” Nod says solemnly, “so the only people they know is us. They imprint on us, and we teach them. I don’t know who trained the first hummingbird—Ronin probably knows, he knows everything—but we’ve used the same training for centuries.”

 

“Huh,” MK muses, but the timer dings, so she hops down from the counter and turns off the oven. Her hot pads are the ones she salvaged from home, the green-and-white striped Williams-Sonoma hot pads that her mom gave her for her sixteenth birthday when she told her mom she wanted to learn how to cook. Her mom had given her her own starting set of nice baking pans, and it raises a lump in her throat now to take out the golden pie pan that her mom had given her, to see the glistening apple pie.

 

“That smells fantastic,” Nod comments, and the moment is over. She swallows the lump down, and turns around with a smile.

 

“Well, it _should_ ,” she says, placing one of the hot pads down and putting the hot pie pan on it. “It’ll take a bit to cool, so I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,” she warns when she sees him creeping towards the pan. A part of the crust is slightly broken off, _just_ big enough for someone Nod’s size to pick it up and eat it. Nod stops and pouts, but she’s not going to relent, because the melted sugar could burn him while it’s still hot.

 

Then Ronin would come and scold her. She would really like not to go through that experience again.

 

The conversation resumes, but Nod is visibly antsy, eyeing the pie like he wants to kidnap it and do unspeakable things to it. It’s a little creepy, not going to lie.

 

“Fine,” she finally sighs, when he doesn’t answer her repeated question. “Let me cut you a piece.”

 

“Awesome,” Nod cheers, jumping to his feet as MK approaches the pie with the pie server. With her knife, she cuts off a small sliver, handing Nod a tiny cocktail fork. Nod’s just polite enough to wait until she has her own sliver, and then he gobbles it down. “S’good,” Nod mumbles through pie. After he swallows, he says, “I really have to share?”

 

“If you don’t want Ronin after your butt,” she chides him, biting into her own slice of pie. “Food equals forgiveness.”

 

“Oh fine,” Nod sighs, eyeing the pie with intent. “But just because you said so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I firmly believe if every nation sat down and had pie together, war would end. 
> 
> MK also shares this belief.
> 
> Yes, there's some product placement from Williams-Sonoma. Sue me. I work there.


	2. Chapter 2

The harvest is in (oh my god, she _has a harvest_ ), and even with canning, she has more squash and pumpkin than what she knows what to do with. The same goes for the apples (though to be fair the apple trees were there long before she was).

 

They have canned tomatoes, squash, pumpkin, and apples. They have crocks full to the brim of blueberries and blackberries.

 

Obviously the only solution is to throw a party.

 

She lets her dad know, because while he’d really like to be there and everything, the Leaf-Men are still nervous around him because unlike her, he doesn’t watch where he steps.

 

She confers with Ronin over the video-screens, and they settle on Halloween, or as Ronin calls it, Samhain. (She confers with Ronin because if she’s inviting the Leaf-Men, they have to figure out who’s guarding Queen Mari. Apparently the Queen falls asleep once night falls on Samhain and doesn’t wake up until dawn of the vernal equinox. Weird). The night of Samhain is the best option, so Halloween it is.

 

MK squashes the urge to dress up.

 

Instead, she makes pie.

 

The whole process takes a couple of days, because when you’re making a _lot_ of pie, they all have different baking temperatures.

 

Squash pie, pumpkin pie, mixed berry pie, apple pie, apple and almond pie—all of her favorites. They’re made in their usual quantities but she makes sure to cut small pieces and have the necessary cutlery and plateware ready.

 

Nod, Mub, and Grub have been hanging out on the kitchen windowsill for days, sniffing hopefully and then trudging home after she sends them away. Delayed gratification, haha.

 

She’s pleasantly surprised when Ronin, during one of these meetings to plan this party as carefully as they can, says he may make an appearance. While they’ve talked and have seen each other, he’s busy with training/protecting the new queen, and she misses him. His sassy lieutenant (whose name is Finn, thank you for telling me that NOD) also promises to be there, along with all of the major officers. The new recruits are being put up to the test of seeing if they can manage the queen’s security for a single evening, on a night when the Boggans won’t show up because of the Holly King or whatever.

 

That explanation goes way over her head so she elects to ignore it.

 

The air has cooled significantly, and when MK wakes up on Halloween morning, she finds that there’s snow on the ground and more on the way (according to weather.com, which is _so_ accurate). She doesn’t know if this means that the party’s off, but since it’s cold (and she does like to dress up in long sleeves, and this just gives her the excuse), she figures out she has enough apples left over to make a vat of cider. The process of making mulled cider doesn’t actually take more than a few hours, and she’s not about to make hard cider (that...will just not lead to good places), and cider isn’t hard, just time consuming.

 

She elects for a mixture of Rome and Gala apples, coring them and cutting off the bruises. After she does that, she cuts the apples in quarters and removes the seed and the seed casing. She leaves the skins on—they make a better flavor that way.

 

Her dad’s food processor is old and ridiculously cranky, but it likes her, so it mixes the apples into a puree. She’s always made sure they have cheesecloth once she set the kitchen to rights, so she sets up the saucepan and the cheesecloth, straining the puree.

 

Oranges, cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon go into the saucepan with the apple juice, and she heats it until it’s boiling, and then she just lets it simmer to keep it warm. She’s not entirely sure _how_ to serve mulled cider to tiny people, but maybe that’s what coffee straws—stirrers, MK, stirrers—are for, so she grabs the package of them that she has (that’s what she’s always used to stir her coffee with and living with her dad doesn’t change any of it), and she cuts them into smaller pieces. That solves _how_ they drink it, but not what she can put the beverage into.

 

Damnit.

 

Wait. Doll cups. When she arrived in White Plains, she saw an antique shop with doll furniture. She has time, so she jumps into Dad’s battered Honda and returns within an hour, armed with a ton of doll cups. They were relatively cheap (yay), and she can serve the mulled cider in them.

 

By that point, the sun is setting, and she realizes the queen will be falling asleep soon, if she’s not already there. It weirds her out a little, to realize how much of the year you’d miss—the snow, Christmas, New Year’s—but maybe the queen doesn’t care for the cold, and maybe she thinks it’s okay.

 

MK just doesn’t know if _she_ could do it.

 

Either way, the Leaf-Men should be here in a couple of hours, so she turns the flame off under the mulled cider and turns the oven to 170 **°** , and she puts all of the pies in to warm.

 

There’s very little work to be done beyond cleaning— _scouring_ —the doll’s cups, and MK’s worked very hard not to have plan-less free time.

 

‘ _So you’re feeding people,’_ her mom’s voice says in her head. _‘Still have that habit, then_?’

 

This isn’t exactly surprising, she tells her mother’s shade as she sets up the cups to dry. I’ve been this way for a while.

 

There’s a ripple of wind from the open window, and it feels like her mom is running her hands through her hair. _‘I’m just surprised. It took you a while to feed your father.’_

MK is _not_ going there.

 

_‘But you fed them almost immediately,’_ her mom goes on. _‘Why do they mean so much to you?’_

Because they feel like home, and that thought startles her to the point she almost drops a cup. Her mother ghosts a laugh over her face, and she’s sure it’s her mom, not the wind. _‘I would like you to feel like you have a home,’_ her mother admits, and warmth wraps around her shoulders like a hug. _‘I know you feel as though you have been deprived of one.’_

MK blinks back tears. Wasn’t I, though?

 

_‘Oh Mary Katherine,_ ’ her mother’s shade sighs. _‘You have always had a home. It is the space you carve for yourself_.’

 

“MK?” Her dad sticks his head in. “Should I clear out now?”

 

MK blinks. “Yeah, now would be a good time. They should be here soon.”

 

“But I can record it, right?” Her dad is _giddy_.

 

“No, Dad,” MK rolls her eyes, flicking the flame back on underneath the cider.

 

Her dad pouts, but leaves.

 

\--

 

The Leaf-Men start to trickle in as the moon rises. They’ve all gotten to know her to some extent, so they’re more comfortable with her than they would’ve been even a month ago (where she was Savior/Protector of the Pod Who Then Went Home To Stomper Land—as Nod coined it).

 

All of the food’s out (in Leaf-Man-sized portions), complete with doll mugs full of cider, and she pretends not to notice the older Leaf-Men who pull out flasks and add things to the cider. She is _not judging_.

 

Nod comes in with the second group, a little bruised but he seems really pleased with himself, so she assumes that his training session went well. He makes a beeline for her, with a slight detour for apple pie, and them clambers onto her shoulder to eat it.

 

She tries to stay out of their way. She may be hostess, but Hall— _Samhain_ means more to them than it does her.

 

Ronin finally comes in near midnight. Nod has gone to join some kind of game (he told her the rules, but he was excited and spoke too quickly, so she has no idea), but Ronin comes in so quietly she would have missed him if she hadn’t been looking for him.

 

“Hi Ronin,” she greets quietly. He looks tired, but he does his little half-smile at her, like he does whenever he sees her. “Tough night?”

 

“The queen took some time to settle down long enough,” Ronin explains, snagging a mug full of cider and drains it. “She was uneasy at the thought of missing Midwinter with her mother.”

 

“How old is she?”

 

“Around eleven, in your years.”

 

“Yeah, that would be nerve-racking for anyone,” MK muses. “Can I get you some pie?”

 

“Nod raved so much about your apple pie that I had better have some, or I’ll hear about the lack all winter long,” Ronin sighs, but she knows him well enough to catch the subtle flash of humor, and she hands him a plate piled high with a straight face.

 

She tries not to stare at him while he eats (the idea of Ronin eating is still—he’s so competent that the idea of him needing food is actually a little uncomfortable), but the other thing is that while she’s relatively confident in her skills as a cook, she still gets anxious about the things she makes for the people she cares about, and she _needs_ to know they like it.

 

Since she’s leaning against the wall and Ronin’s perched on the windowsill, she hears his appreciation. She beams unconsciously. _Mission accomplished_. “This is ade—good. This is good, MK.”

 

“Thank you,” MK says sincerely. “Can I get you more? I mean, if it’s been a long night—and it’s a holiday! Holiday calories _never_ count.”

 

Ronin blinks. Do Leaf-Men have a concept of calories? “I would appreciate more, yes.”

 

Beaming, she goes to get him more.

 

Halloween? Best holiday _ever_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) How MK makes mulled cider is actually how you can make mulled cider. You can make it hard cider by adding the liquor of your choice, or you can distill it yourself as hard cider. The more you know.
> 
> B) Halloween (previously All Hallows Eve) is actually based on the Celtic holiday Samhain, where Ye Olde Pagans believed that Samhain is the night when the veil between the Underworld and our world was thinnest, and that the spirits who would frolic would not necessarily be the spirits you wanted to frolic around your house, so the whole Jack'O'Lanterns and dressing up was to confuse the spirits or outright warn them away. Please note that I am not speaking for all Pagans here. 
> 
> With this, Communion is done. I too feel the need to feed people (MK you are my patronus), so yes. 
> 
> Believe it or not, comments *are* appreciated. Writers thrive off of feedback, guys.


End file.
